


Chased the Dark Away

by smileybagel



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen, M/M, pre slash, slight emotional trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smileybagel/pseuds/smileybagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Frost is haunted by a ghost of his past. His sister won’t leave him alone, bringing the bite of winter with her. He returns to his lake in hopes of silencing her voice, but finds remnants of something banished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chased the Dark Away

**Author's Note:**

> It's hard to get out of the habit of writing in present tense when you RP -.-;

Jack can’t sleep.

Sandy can’t help him.

North is too busy so close to Christmas.

As if Bunnymund would offer help.

And Tooth can’t do much besides give him a root canal, which he does  _not want._  At all. 

Jack Frost becomes an icy wraith haunting the halls of Big Red’s Workshop, or at least that’s what the elves have taken to calling him. He stays away from his room, claiming that it’s no use, a bed won’t make him sleep. Not when he can hear his sister loud and clear.

For weeks her voice plagues him, not allowing him to get a bit of reprieve. It’s nearly enough to drive the winter sprite insane, key word being  _nearly_. 

It’s the fourth week in a row that her voice floats through the many halls of Santa’s domain. The sprite had laid down in his bed, though knowing it was useless, and stared up at the window in the ceiling. At this time of day, the moon was not visible, so he couldn’t gain any sort of comfort from Manny. His sister’s voice echos off of the walls, calling out to him, giggling happily then abruptly shrieking. Of course, Jack is the only one to hear it, the only one to suffer through it. This day, he can even feel the cold shock of water as he relives the moment when his body hit the surface. It’s the first time in years that Jack actually experiences the feeling of freezing and it terrifies him, so much so that he leaves the workshop in a flurry of snow and travels among the wind for some time.

When he finally calms down enough to realize where he is going, his feet are already landing upon the frozen ice that is his deathbed, his staff hanging from his fingers precariously as he stares down at the solid lake. The feelings of frost bite only worsens now that he is here and Jack knows it won’t go away, not when the illusion of his dear sister still lingers.

The more Jack stares at the water underneath, the more he sees himself drowning in the abyss. It’s surreal, he thinks, to see a phantom of himself scrambling at the ice to catch a single breath of air. The snow child answers the ghost’s question of  _‘Where are you, Jack?’_

“Right here,” is his reply. “I was always here.”

Jack takes note of the abrupt silence immediately. Her voice has been a constant for so long now that it would impossible for him not to. Jack’s muscles tense, his ears straining for a single laugh or cry. 

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

The hold on his staff tightens, now wielding the makeshift weapon in both hands and stance defensive, legs bent and body crouched. His eyes swept about the scene, thinking maybe someone was there, someone who could erase the ghost that plagued him.

Once again, he finds nothing.

Then, he hears it.

The slither and hiss of sand. 

With a quick glance to the sky, he knows it’s not Sandy. Twilight has just broken across the horizon, it would be a few hours yet before the Sandman would begin making his rounds on this side of the globe. It’s not until he feels wisps of sand winding around his ankle that his mind dares to entertain the thought of  _Pitch_.

It’s then that he remembers just how close his lake is to Pitch’s lair. From there, his mind reasons that it’s not so unlikely for some left over nightmare sand to be lingering in the surface world. After all, just because the Boogeyman is locked away doesn’t mean bad dreams are.

But the sand still wrapped around his ankle disagrees. It tightens and tugs, pulling Jack from the lake’s surface and deeper into the forest surrounding it. Frost doesn’t bother to fight it, he is tired and worn. The sudden loss of his sister’s voice provides an emptiness he didn’t know existed and for one single moment, he almost wants it back.

So he follows the force that pulls him, hoping and wishing it will lead him to something that can fill the now gaping hole left by the absence of sound. A part of him wants to find Pitch and talk, about what he doesn’t know. Not yet, anyway. But his mind reasons with him that it’s impossible. The Nightmares would keep their once king down in the black depths for years to come. Jack doesn’t deny the sigh that escapes him. It is sorrowful and disappointed, as the boy did indeed hope to see the forgotten king once more.

Jack has no answer for why he wants to, and he never will.

He feels the black tendrils of sand tighten as he enters the clearing in which a broken bed once stood. The left over lumber from the structure is scattered around its old spot, reminding Jack of Pitch’s screams as he was dragged down, clawing at the ground hoping to be saved from his own fear. The sand gives one final tug, drawing Jack to the very edge of the lost entrance to the Nightmare King’s lair and sinks back to the ground, outlining the would-be hole. 

There is no evidence beside Jack’s memories and the splintered wood that there was ever anything here. More disappointment creeps into Jack’s being but his mind tells him that it was foolish to have hope. The winter child sighs again and kneels down, his fingertips brushing the dirt to and fro, subconsciously trying to make out some sort of door.

Of course, nothing is there. 

The forever-teen clutches his staff in both hands and gently sets in the middle of the space and concentrates. Why he does this is not known, as it is with many of his actions as of late. He just knows what he wants. 

When Jack stands and straightens himself, he looks down to survey his handiwork. A snowflake, shining and glistening in what is left of the Winter sun, is painted neatly in the center of the once-tunnel entrance. 

A sign perhaps, to Pitch if he still lives, that Frost was here.

And that somewhere in his core, he cares for the darkness.

 ….

Many hours later as true nightfall creeps across the land, a shadow with more life than it should have dances along the ground. It seems mesmerized by the snowflake on the ground, as it stares for hours on end.

When it retreats back to the forest’s own shadows and shades, a single word is carried by the wind, though its recipient cannot hear it.

“ _Jack,_ ” it calls before fading into the wind’s song. “ _Jack Frost._ “


End file.
